Morning sunlight spilled over Vanhound, the capital of Vanward, like molten gold poured between towers.
From the outer districts to the royal spires, the city rose in layered terraces—white stone buildings trimmed with blue banners, glass-roofed markets glinting like scales of a dragon, and wide sky-bridges connecting districts high above the streets. Airships drifted lazily between watchtowers, their shadows gliding over canals where merchants shouted prices and children chased floating paper lanterns.
Life here never slowed.
Artisans hammered steel in open forges. Bakers lined streets with the smell of sugar and spice. Nobles passed in silk-lined carriages while laborers laughed over shared meals, sitting shoulder to shoulder without ever looking up at the palace that ruled them.
Gris walked beside Mira, hands brushing—sometimes accidentally, sometimes not.
"You know," Mira said, eyeing the skyline, "for a city built on war, it's annoyingly beautiful."
Gris smirked. "That's how it tricks you. Like a blade polished to look harmless."
She leaned closer. "Still sharper than you."
"Ouch."
They laughed, light and unguarded, a rare thing for someone like Gris. He wore no mask today. Just a hood, loose and ordinary. Mira noticed—and didn't comment.
They wandered deeper into Vanhound's inner district, where shops glittered beneath hanging crystal lamps. Tailors called out offers, silks rippled in the breeze, and mirrors lined the streets like rivers of glass.
Mira stopped abruptly.
Gris nearly walked into her.
"No," she said firmly.
"No, what?" he asked.
"That." She pointed at his clothes. "You cannot attend a royal party dressed like you're about to assassinate someone."
"I usually am."
She dragged him into a boutique before he could protest.
Inside, fabrics brushed his fingers—soft, expensive, unfamiliar. Mira held up a dark formal coat trimmed with silver.
"This," she said.
He stared. "I'll stand out."
She smiled sweetly. "Good."
Moments later, it was her turn. Gris stood awkwardly as she tried on dresses—midnight blue, ivory, crimson. She turned once, watching his reaction.
"…You're staring," she said.
"You're distracting," he replied flatly.
She laughed. "Good answer."
They left with neatly wrapped parcels, Mira humming softly as Gris carried the bags like contraband.
"Cake?" she asked.
"Cake," he agreed.
They stopped at a small cake shop tucked between a bookbinder and a glassblower. Warm light spilled through its windows, soft and inviting.
Inside, the smell nearly killed him.
Cream, honey, berries.
Gris ordered without thinking. Mira watched him with amusement.
"You're smiling," she said.
"I survived wars for less," he replied. "This deserves respect."
They sat—until someone pulled a chair backward and dropped into it like he owned the place.
"You're both disgustingly domestic."
Gris didn't look up. "Adam."
Adam wore a hoodie pulled low, a simple cloth mask hiding his face. He slouched, legs kicked up on an empty chair, chewing someone else's pastry.
"You left me to deal with nobles yesterday," Adam continued. "I nearly died of boredom."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "Nearly?"
"Tragic, I know."
Adam leaned closer to Gris. "You never need anything—anything—you call me. You pulled me out once. I won't forget that."
Before Gris could respond, a waiter bumped into Adam.
The mask slipped.
The shop went silent.
Blonde hair caught the light like spun gold. Sharp features, calm eyes, a voice that carried without effort.
Every woman in the room turned.
Gasps followed. Then whispers. Then chaos.
"Oh gods—"
"Is that—?"
Adam froze.
Then swore.
Women surrounded him instantly. Laughter, hands, voices overlapping. Mira grabbed Gris's sleeve.
"Run."
They left the shop as Adam shouted after them, "YOU JERKS—COME BACK—"
His voice faded behind laughter.
Outside, Mira exhaled, still smiling. "He hides his face for a reason."
Gris nodded. "And yet…"
She stopped walking.
Moved close.
Her lips brushed his ear.
"We're being followed."
From the way back, when we were shopping.
Gris didn't react.
They walked normally. Turned once. Then slipped into a narrow alley.
The five masked men stepped out, blocking the narrow alley.
Steel scraped softly.
"Surrender," one of them ordered.
Gris tilted his head slightly, eyes cold, unreadable.
"Well," he said calmly, placing one shopping bag down, "quiet uninvited guests for the party."
The first man lunged.
Mira moved first—low sweep, elbow to throat. Gris followed, smashing a knee into ribs, twisting a blade free mid-motion. The alley was tight, bodies crashing against walls, nowhere to retreat.
A knife flashed—Gris caught the wrist, slammed the man's face into stone.
Teeth shattered.
Blood sprayed concrete.
Two fled immediately.
One screamed.
Another went through the window at the alley's end, glass exploding outward as his body followed.
Silence.
They dragged the last man to a safehouse.
Meanwhile, in the castle, banners were raised.
Preparations for the king's survival celebration filled every hall.
Julies walked among them, sharp-eyed, alert.
Jake Vanward—his stepbrother—joined him.
"Careful tonight," Jake said quietly. "I want you alive tomorrow."
Julies smiled. "Still worried?"
"Always."
Jake left.
His smile vanished.
In his room, he read a letter.
Hands trembling.
A grin spread.
Hours later, at the safehouse.
Gris dragged a chair forward and sat across from him. The room was small—low ceiling, stone walls, one narrow window boarded from the outside. Blood had already soaked into the cracks of the floor, darkening the wood.
He tossed a bucket of water onto the man's face.
The captive gasped, choking, chains rattling as he jerked awake.
Gris crouched until they were eye to eye.
"What do you want?" he asked again, voice calm, almost bored.
The man laughed.
A wet, hysterical sound.
Gris didn't flinch.
He took the man's hand gently, almost carefully, and produced a small blade—thin, precise. No serration. Clean.
Gris slid the blade under the first nail.
The scream hit the walls like a physical force.
The nail came free with a soft, sickening sound, blood spilling immediately. Gris placed it on the table beside him.
"One," he said.
The second nail followed.
The man sobbed now, breath stuttering, body trembling violently.
"Stop—stop—I'll talk—"
Gris leaned in closer. "You're already late."
The man laughed again, tears streaming. "They wanted you away from the castle. You. The demon. That was my only job."
Gris's eyes narrowed.
"They knew," the man continued, breath hitching, "that if we let you catch me, you'd bring me here. This place."
A sharp crack echoed through the room.
Glass exploded inward.
Boards shattered.
Masked figures poured through the window like shadows torn loose—steel flashing in the confined space.
The room became a slaughterhouse.
Gris moved first.
A blade pierced one attacker's throat before he could step fully inside. Gris yanked it free, spraying the wall red. Another man lunged—Gris blocked, headbutted, then drove his elbow into the man's jaw hard enough to cave it inward.
There was nowhere to move.
Walls were slick now.
Blood made the floor treacherous.
A man swung wildly—Gris caught the wrist, twisted, snapped bone, then buried his knife into the man's eye. He didn't even wait for the body to fall before turning to the next.
One attacker tried to retreat.
Gris grabbed him by the collar and hurled him bodily through the window.
Glass rained down.
Then silence.
Bodies piled in the room, steam rising from fresh blood.
The captive stared, eyes wide, mouth open.
Gris turned back to him.
"Your mistake," he said quietly, "was thinking this place was a trap."
The ground shook.
A distant, thunderous boom rolled through the city.
Gris froze.
Another explosion—closer.
From the direction of the castle.
Julies' quarters.
Gris didn't look at the captive again.
He was already moving.